


I have no idea dis a draft just ignore it

by TheDuckFollows



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-24 03:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20351809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDuckFollows/pseuds/TheDuckFollows
Summary: After the Apocawasn't Crowley and Aziraphale have an argument which leads to Crowley taking a 30-year-long nap.A lot of things go down by the time he finally awakens and he is left to discover how they happened and why.Meanwhile, Aziraphale, fresh out of prison, tries to welcome him back into his life. Every conversation ends in a shouting contest, every visit in a fight. Soon enough he gives up on his best friend.But when his last cellmate pays him a visit he realises he needs something to compensate his overly angelic and naive attitude, and that something happens to be sulking in a vintage car outside his bookshop.





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days after the dinner at the Ritz they met again, just to check-in, to see everything was going well.
> 
> Three weeks after the Ritz they moved in together.
> 
> And then Crowley behaved like a bitchy asshole.

Three days after the dinner at the Ritz they met again, just to check-in, to see everything was going well.

Aziraphale had been going on about business, his bookshop as impeccable as always, no trace of the fire.

Crowley had kept the small talk going, his Bentley was good as new, his music was in place. 

No news from up above, no trouble from down below.

Three weeks after the Ritz they moved in together.

_'It seems logical'_, the angel had said. _'We keep talking over the phone, you have nothing to do and I could use some company around here. A lot of humans have housemates, you know, Crowley.'_

_'I don't need housemates, I have houseplants for that'_, he had answered.

The angel had laughed and then completely ignored it. He had said he worried about the demon being lonely, sulking around.

Crowley didn't have the heart to tell him no. Didn't have any excuse to do so either.

But there was a tremendous difference between "accidentally" bumping into the angel every couple decades and running into him a couple times a day, and it wasn't doing Crowley's heart any good, even if it wasn't that vital of an organ to him.

Before it was controlled. He could keep his feelings in check, always had. And, if anything went pear-shaped, which wasn't a rare occurrence, they had all the time in the world to cool off.

Now, however, Aziraphale was _everywhere_, and not only physically. The bookshop embodied the angel almost as much as the Bentley did Crowley. His smell blending in with that of old leather and fresh tea, his voice always present in the background, whether he was on the phone, talking to clients or to himself as he so often did back in Mesopotamia.

"Angel, I honestly don't know how you do it," he had commented one day as they sat in the backroom, drinking expensive champagne out of the bottle. "I mean, these humans, they're just exhausting to deal with."

"Well my dear," his housemate had been more than happy to answer in his drunken state, pointing at him with the now-empty bottle of Château Margaux. "It's all about love, really. I am made of love, I am an angel. I care about humanity."

Crowley couldn't keep the grimace off his face. He hated whenever Aziraphale would use the whole 'angel made of love' skit as a reason to be so fucking nice to everyone. Not only now that he knew how other angels truly behaved - he would never be able to erase Gabriel's tight, contemptuous smile off his brain - but because there was always another side to that coin. Angels made of love, demons made of hate.

And while he knew it wasn't true, hearing the angel say that first bit made him wonder whether Aziraphale believed in the continuation. Whether he really trusted him. Sure, he had invited him to live in his place, and sure, they had pretty much confessed their undying loyalty to each other at the end of that special dinner after escaping a certain fate.

But still, it might very well be something ingrained in the angel. Be wary of the enemy.

These thoughts made him, in return, act like a royal bitch most of the time.

So it was no surprise that three months after the Ritz, Aziraphale kicked him out.

He was actually surprised, just thinking about the courage it must have taken the angel to tell him to leave made his brain explode. Although the surprise had quickly been replaced by shame, heavyset in his gut.

Every conversation, every interaction they'd had since they moved in replayed in his mind over and over again as he drove back to his flat, making him want to take a sharp turn into every tree he passed. 

He had said sure, as nonchalantly as possible, cool as ever. Unaffected, after all, he was Crowley. 

He had started his Bentley and driven away without looking back, the thought of his angel staying at him at the verge of tears too much to bear. Of course, those tears were Aziraphale's way of telling him "look what you're making me do, Crowley. You're making me kick you out. How can I be nice and good if I'm kicking you out."

The second he entered his flat he slumped on his bed, glancing at his plants menacingly every now and then but too tired to do anything about the brown spots covering the dull, green leaves.

He pulled his black silk sheets over his body, sparing one last look at the rolled-up blinds and praying, as ironic as that might sound, that the sunlight wouldn't wake him up at dawn.

It didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I have no beta and I know I have to improve the chapter summary.  
I should also add a title to the chapter and to the fic.
> 
> Eh, I'll get to it.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up from his nap to a phone call from a distressed angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know what's going on tbh but I should probably write the whole thing before publishing but oh well I am one unreliable asshole

Waking up always left a bad taste in his mouth, one of the many reasons he rarely ever went to sleep. It was similar to sobering up in a matter of seconds, although this one he couldn't wash away.

At one point during the thirty-year-long nap he'd just taken, according to his calendar, he had kicked off his sheets. He had also taken off his clothes and crawled up a wall, where he lay for the remaining years. Probably his lizard instinct taking over. Shed that extra skin you got there, get that sunlight directly on your skin. He didn't know what had woken him up until he registered the phone ringing in the background.

He lazily walked up to it, still groggy. A cup of coffee would do him wonders.

"Angel?" He answered. Process of elimination, really. Although he wouldn't be _that_ surprised if Hell suddenly decided to act up.

"Crowley? Crowley! Oh God, Crowley I thought you were never going to pick up." Crowley had to lean back, the angel's voice too loud for such an early hour.

"Angel, what's going on? You sound frantic." The idea of Aziraphale getting all worked up after only a couple years did not sit well with him, especially considering the century-long nap during which the angel had made no attempt to contact him whatsoever.

"I've been trying to reach you for ages Crowley this is an urgent matter. God, Crowley, where the hell have you been?"

He rubbed his temples, yeah, definitely too early for this.

"Aziraphale you are going to use up my name if you keep screaming it every four seconds, calm down. I've just been sleeping, at my flat. You know, the place where I live." He rubbed his eyes and had to stifle a yawn. "You have a key, remember?"

The angel remained silent for a few seconds, before answering, considerably more calm than before.

"I couldn't visit your flat Crowley, I was in prison."

"What?" The words fell off his mouth before he could process it. Prison. Aziraphale in prison. What the unholy fuck had happened in the short time he had been hibernating. "Look, angel, I'm going to the bookshop. Gimme a couple minutes."

"I'll be here." Aziraphale hung up, all traces of distress had left his voice.

"Well this is going to be interesting," he commented aloud, but even his plants, who looked as though they had been partying for the last three decades, could see past his confidence. Aziraphale stuck in a cell was a scary thought, but the idea that either heaven or hell could be involved terrified him.

He miracled on a vintage suit, since going about naked didn't seem like a good idea. At any other point he wouldn't have minded that much, but after the phone call, well, not happening. He pocketed the keys to the Bentley, feeling a tinge of regret for leaving it alone for so long, and quickly checked his call record. Most of his calls were from the bookshop for the first few months after he began sleeping, but before the first year had passed the number changed. The daily calls had stopped just a few months before he woke up.

The thought of Aziraphale using his calls to try and reach him warmed his heart but knowing he had failed to answer every single one of them angered him. Especially as he knew the angel wouldn't be mad at him. He would probably shrug it off, too _nice_ to call him out on his bullshit. Although recalling their last conversation before the nap, who knew.

Of one thing Crowley was certain, an apology was in place.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley meets Aziraphale for the first time after his long-ish (not by his standards) nap.

Mid-life crisis always amazed him. How someone could go from being perfectly fine to questioning everything without any actual change happening in their lives was beyond him, yet he himself had had a few back in the day, one of which had ended with a certain emperor stabbed to death, ( though that was not really his fault).

The first thing he noticed upon arriving at the bookshop was that the door was locked and the lights were off. Aziraphale rarely closed, even if it was well past the closing time. There was always one lingering client asking questions. Even more surprising considering it was lunchtime.

He touched the doorknob, a slight brush of the fingers and it unlocked with a click. The place was so dark he blended in perfectly, just another shadow. The only light came from the backroom where he used to drink himself to a stupor with his angel. 

He edged closer, his footsteps resonating through the hallway, giving the bookshop a very eerie, non-Aziraphale-like feeling.

The angel was sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall despite the sofas scattered around. He didn't bat an eye as Crowley entered the room, his gaze instead fixed on the candlelight on one of the nightstands.

"Angel?" This made him turn to face him, blinking surprised, as though he really hadn't seen Crowley come in from the door which was clearly in his field of vision.

"Hello, Crowley! How are you?" He moved slightly forward as if he was going to stand up, but then seemed to think better about it and remained seated.

"I'm, eh, I'm fine. How about yourself?" He leaned against the doorframe, unconvinced by the angel's casual voice. 

Aziraphale wore his usual old-time suit, but his hair looked too messy and his eyes were devoid of any emotion. Even his angelic smile felt off, too guarded.

"It's been a, well, not too nice time, actually. The clients don't come in that often." He murmured, his eyes drawn back to the faint, orange glow. "I haven't had any trouble from upstairs, I think. I was on trial on and off for a triple homicide, which gives me a bit of a bad reputation among humans I guess, but I still feed the ducks every now and then. The rest is pretty much the same as before you- well, as before."

"Excuse me, triple _what _?" The calm background noise filled with the distant chirping of magpies was ungraciously interrupted by his screech.

"Homicide Crowley, I'm sure the term is not new to you." This time his tone was laced with irritation.

Aziraphale was not one for throwing shade. Sure, his question had been dumb, but Aziraphale's words didn't make sense to him. He exhaled deeply and walked to the sofa next to the angel, sitting like a normal person for once in his life. He folded his arms over his knees and leaned forward.

"Okay, why were you on trial?"

"Triple homicide."

He felt the urge to put crash his head through a wall.

"Yes, I got that bit, angel. But why did they think it was you?"

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side and risked a look at him. "Because three people were killed and I was the only one with no injuries when the police arrived."

The fact that Aziraphale hadn't mentioned he hadn't actually done it suddenly slapped him across the face, hard. Surely it was because the angel's innocence was obvious, and asking him would probably offend him. 'Crowley, for God's sake, I'm an angel!' There it was again, that bitterness. But this wasn't about him.

"Okay angel, I need a step-by-step here."

"They asked me questions, I tried answering but I couldn't possibly tell them: 'Well, you see, the thing is, I am an angel of the Lord, although she probably wants to cast me out'. So I think I ended up incriminating myself."

"Still, without proof, they can't just-" He threw his hands in the air in disbelief. "They can't throw you in prison just because it is convenient to have a suspect on hand."

Aziraphale planted his hands on the floor and pushed himself up.

"It's all okay Crowley. I shouldn't have called you."

"Woah angel, slow down." In an instant he had hopped to his feet, quickly blocking Aziraphale's way before he could exit the door. "If you want we can talk later, after we have lunch, but I'm not just leaving. What you just told me is insane."

This got him a small smile, the first hint of his friend really being there.

His happiness, however, was short-lived.

"I appreciate the gesture Crowley but I think it would be better if you leave it be. Everything is fine, really."

Crowley didn't speak, just watched as Aziraphale walked out, slowly making his way to the guest bedroom. He scoffed, 'bullshit, angel', and started to leave. Before he could get very far he heard Aziraphale close the door and lock it, immediately followed by a thud as he collapsed on the spot.

Crowley turned on his heels and headed straight for the room.

"Everything fine my ass."

He was angry, fuming. Woken up from his slumber for Aziraphale to act all weird and distant. But above all of that, he was worried, worried he hadn't woken up before. Worried about what had happened in his absence.

And, of course, worried about the whole triple homicide story, but that went without saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep unreliable af but here  
At some point, I'll write some fluff or whatevs but for now, this fic has jumped on the angst train.  
Choo choo


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time it is Aziraphale who wakes up to a golden-eyed bundle of nerves.

Lying and being an angel didn't exactly go well together, as one might imagine. Especially if one was trying to deceive the guy who more than likely created the concept in the first place.

"You couldn't have driven off to Alpha Centauri or something instead of coming here to annoy me, could you?"

He had woken up lying on the floor, one of his jackets neatly folded under his head as a make-do pillow. He hadn't moved, just observed Crowley pacing back and forth, mumbling curses and gesticulating exaggeratedly with his hands. Crowley hadn't bothered to miracle the door open, instead opting to crash through it, nearly tearing it off its hinges.

"Angel, for fuck's sake, you were the one who called me."

"Yes well, thanks for all. I have things to get to."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. He was definitely not equipped to deal with these kinds of situations, whatever category they fit into.

"Can you even stand? Aziraphale you passed out, you are an angel, angels don't just fucking blackout!" He inched closer.

"I drank too much."

"When?!" Crowley's voice was near hysterical.

"Geez Crowley it doesn't matter I told you to go so just _go_." His friend's frantic movements were starting to make him feel on edge.

"You are making this very difficult and I can't scream at you properly when you are lying on the floor, angel." He huffed and rolled to the side, propping himself up with clumsy movements. His limbs felt numb, as though they had been torn off and then attached back with cheap thread.

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. Maybe screeching in Aziraphale's face just after he had regained consciousness was not that bright of an idea. "Look, if you have a problem, just tell me and when can solve it or whatever, okay?"

Rather than deescalating the situation, as he was hoping would happen, his gentle words did nothing but fire Aziraphale up. So much for loving nature.

"But that's it, Crowley! Yes, I have many problems, but they are _mine_. The Great Plan is over, we don't have to worry about Armageddon or the Rapture or anything, I think enough time has passed to prove that."

"What are you trying to say?" The pain in his voice was unmistakable.

"We are no longer a team. We don't have to be a team." Aziraphale was speaking as though it was obvious and Crowley was too stupid to understand facts.

Crowley removed his shades, eyes cast down. '_Rub it in, won't you?'_

"But we can." Now that they were both standing he found he could hardly face Aziraphale. The spotted carpet decorating the floor seemed to appreciate his words more.

Ever since the Beginning, their conversations had gone down two paths. Either Aziraphale was too guarded and questioned the underlying motive of Crowley's actions, making him, in turn, a tease, always willing to speed just a little bit more than the Bentley could probably withstand, or they actually showed a glint of how they truly felt about each other, half-muttered words that never lead anywhere. Now, however, with Heaven and Hell no longer playing a role in their lives, they could no longer mask their proximity as a job task. Crowley understood this and knew that they would do everything they could to put off that conversation. Still, it couldn't hurt to try.

"I didn't say I would run off to Alpha Centauri, I said I would run off to Alpha Centauri with you. And now? We don't even have to run. We can leave, sure, but we can also stay here."

Aziraphale rubbed his jaw. He clearly didn't expect Crowley to be the one to take the high road, it was, after all, an angel's job to do so.

"Okay, Crowley." He picked up the jacket and straightened it. "We'll go to the sushi bar first, then your place. Open a bottle of whatever you have stored in there."

It was surprising, really. Crowley had gone from being a mischievous bastard to a merely confused demon who actually tried to reason his way through arguments. Aziraphale had abandoned his forgiving nature ever so slightly, his fear of expressing emotion other than bright, pure love cast aside now that he had no supervisor tracking his every movement. But it was also refreshing. The had left behind those stereotypes. Ugly tags attached from day one, (day one of being cast down, in Crowley's case).

Maybe, although only time could tell, (and didn't they have plenty of that), it was a step towards sincerity. An inch closer to admitting the truth. A truth that kept them from each other, from being truly whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone getting 'We didn't start the fire' vibes this summer?


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale drive to the sushi joint.  
Existential crisis ensues.

Aziraphale dipped another piece of red tuna into the cup filled with soya sauce, closing his eyes as he reverently placed it on his mouth. Exquisite.

"I'm starting to think we only came here so I would have to watch you eat."

Crowley sat across the booth, his long arms hugging each side of the red leather sofa. He had agreed to keep his shades off. Although the light in the room was dimmed to a minimum, he wouldn't have minded keeping them on, but tonight didn't seem like the night to annoy his angelic counterpart. He shrugged off the curious glances of the other customers as casually as he always had.

"Come on, dear, you know you enjoy it almost as much as I do." Aziraphale lifted the chopsticks, swinging the green algae slightly from side to side to emphasize his words, dripping bright, green sauce in every direction. "_Almost_."

"You keep believing that, angel." 

Crowley removed himself from the sofa with much effort as his clothes had stuck to the leather thanks to the humidity of the place. He propped himself on his elbows and stared.

Soon enough, he started feeling fidgety. Behind his shades, he could observe the angel for hours on end. His sporadic movements as he dove for another piece of raw fish with as much enthusiasm as the last one. But now the angel kept stealing glances in his direction, the corners of his mouth slightly quirking upwards as Crowley shifted in his seat.

And even as he returned those twinkles with half-smiles of his own he felt he was growing tired, and he couldn't even tell what was bothering him the most. Every moment spent with Aziraphale had always been hindered by the concern that he might taint one of God's creations, but wasn't he a son of the Almighty too? And Heaven, oh Heaven, white sanctuary where the angels looked over humanity. Every lie he had slowly uncovered, the absolute corruption of a divine system that was supposed to just, to just be good. Wasn't that the whole point of this neverending war? 

He stumbled to his legs, fishing the shades off his pocket in a matter of seconds and pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

"I'm going to the bathroom." It was stupid. But then again, any excuse would be when you are a supernatural being who doesn't need to fulfil human's basic needs. He strode towards the nearest exit before Aziraphale could finish swallowing.

Hell and humanity were always blamed for any and all concepts that might be deemed bad, but wasn't sacrificing God's creation just for another squirmish selfish? Didn't offing one of 'your own' simply because you'd rather maintain the power structures in place make it abundantly clear your organisation was corrupt to its core? Heaven was no better than any other mafia houses he had encountered in the 1950s, yet there it stood, on a fucking golden pedestal for everyone to pray to.

Crowley wasn’t one for crying. He had never stopped to check if he had tear ducts, so when he entered the burning bookshop the night he lost his best friend for the first time he was caught off guard. Yet now, even knowing that Aziraphale was all well and definitely in a corporeal form wolfing down food in the sushi joint he had to double down and hold his breath to keep the tears at bay. 

Now that they could be themselves he found he didn’t know who he was. It was always the _damn rules_. Aziraphale followed them, he broke them. Easy.

But when you were stripped from the only thing that gave you an identity, what did you have left? What did they have to live for?

“Crowley?” Each other, right.

“Angel.” He wiped his eyes, hiding any trace of the unshed tears and standing with his brightest smile plastered on his face. Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up.

“Dear, you look terrifying.”

Despite himself, he laughed.

“I try my best.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly and started heading towards the Bentley, gesturing for Crowley to follow.

“I’m a bit disappointed you missed dessert, we will have to come back sometime.”

“Soon, angel. You do have to tell me what happened these last years when we get back.”

Aziraphale sighed in mock surrender.

“I did promise I would do so.”

“Splendid, and I promise I won’t drive us into a tree.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, already fearing for his safety. “How kind of you, Crowley.” 

The demon smiled smugly, fishing the keys out of his pocket and tenderly caressing the Bentley as a way of saying ‘we’re back’. He vowed to burry any doubts and traces of his existential crisis as deep as he could.

“My pleasure. That being said, I can’t wait to hear about this cellmate of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao, I'm sorry I'm late  
although I don't have a posting schedule. Or a writing schedule.  
anyways yeah Heaven sucks if anyone has any idea or criticism or wants to vent leave a comment or something  
and thanks for reading


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is going well until Crowley decides to make a joke when he should have probably shut it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I just realized you can add notes at the beginning and at the end  
hi

“We met in jail, a few days before one of the judges was killed and they decided they more than likely had the wrong man. When you left I spent a good fifteen years, give or take a few just hoarding books."

"Well, that's new."

"Crowley." The threat earned him a half-mumbled apology from the demon. "Then the incident happened and they locked me up. I wasn't there for long, the killer clearly wasn't smart, if you ask me."

"Because he killed again?"

"Well, clearly no one suspected of him, they had me behind bars!"

"And that was a mistake on their part, sure, but killers don't have an 'off' switch you can flip angel."

"Or maybe he didn't have enough neurons to use a perfect opportunity to stay in the clear."

"Or," Crowley gave him a pointed look, not ready to give up defending not just a random killer, but the honour of all killers, past or present, for absolutely no justifiable reason at all. "The fella just wanted some recognition, who knows."

Aziraphale shot him a concerned look, getting a shy smile in response.

"Rigth, well, he was released a few days after that and then when they let me go on conditional I just didn't have anyone to talk to.”

“So you looked for him.”

Aziraphale nodded, his face still partly covered by his teacup. In the end, they had driven back to the bookshop to collect some of Aziraphae's books, and by the time he had located his oldest, signed copy of _Twelfth Night_ by his late Elizabethan friend driving back to Crowley's apartment just wasn't worth it.

“It was easy to find him, Shadwell is actually quite efficient at his job, despite his age.”

“You went to Shadwell?!” Crowley’s voice pitched, reminding him all too well of when they first met after in The Garden when Aziraphale had given Adam his flaming sword.

“Oh come on!” He didn't like how Crowley was looking at him, didn't like how every word he spoke was tinged with shyness and shame. “It’s not like you were around. It had been a long time since I visited any of them. You should stop by, too.” 

Crowley grumbled something and took a long sip of his own teacup, filled with bad whiskey to the brim. Aziraphale had pouted when the demon had fished the bottle of undrinkable liquid from one of his cabinets, but Crowley was somehow washing it down.

“Anyways, what happened after that. You found your crush boy and what?”

“Excuse me?” His cheeks immediately turned beet red. “Adaiah was a nice guy who happened to believe in my innocence in a place filled with criminals. He was also a great conversationalist. But most importantly, he was _there_. Unlike you, Crowley.” 

Crowley smirked into his cup, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh I believe he was there for that innocence of yours all right,” he mocked, as nonchalantly as ever. 

Aziraphale grew very still, the implications of Crowley’s poor attempt at a joke not lost on him. 

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” 

Judging by his voice, his expression and the I’m-about-to-rip-you-a-new-one look, Crowley safely assumed he had not so much stepped but leapt over a line. 

“Look, angel, all I’m saying is you are a bit naive, that’s all. Prison is not a good place for you.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth but then thought about it better, clearly deeming Crowley’s words unworthy of a response. He placed his cup back on the table forcefully and stood.

“This has been a lovely afternoon, I have to rest now. You know where the door is.”

Crowley felt attacked by the intense sense of Deja Vu as Aziraphale walked down the same hallway as he had after their last visit, into the same room. This time no suspicious sounds came after he locked the door. 

He slumped even more from his already puddle-like position on the sofa.

“Good one, fan-fucking-tastic.” He thought of miracling the cups away, but chances of Aziraphale appreciating the gesture were nonexistent so he up and left, prowling away from the bookshop and into the night, were the shadows and the monsters and the _fucking assholes who just can’t shut it_ belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't give these guys a break.
> 
> Anyway I'm going to put the fic on hold until the 9th of next month cause I have to translate a long-ass document which sucks and the deadline is way too soon
> 
> But oh well, enjoy


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't even remember sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally couldn't write chapter seven like I had no clue what happened between six and eight so I just  
I just skipped it(?)  
Dunno if that's legal  
anyways I hope this makes sense

Opening the door, he expected a lost human, or maybe someone so interested in finding a book that they wouldn't mind waking him up in the middle of the night. Hell, he even considered Crowley being at his door for a moment, but the demon wasn’t one for apologies, especially when he thought he was in the right.

He didn't expect, however, the hard, grey eyes of Adaiah. He was pushed into the bookshop as the man stepped in, looking around the place, marvelled.

It was quite the view, he supposed. Especially for someone who had never been around this many books.

"So, it took me a long time I'll tell you that, but I found you." His voice was slightly deeper than it had been back when they first met, but the snarky undertone remained. What caught Aziraphale's eye, however, were the multiple bruises along the right side of his face. Blue and purple faded into dark yellow and red. There was no sign of swelling and it didn't look _that_ recent, but Aziraphale couldn't stop himself from gasping and reaching out, the tips of his fingers ever so slightly brushing against the tainted skin.  His sharp features looked exactly as they did in back then, the only change being a full stubble. He had shaved daily in prison, to 'keep the routine going, feel human', so the slight change was enough to make him seem ten times tougher.

"Adaiah, what in God's name happened to you."

"Eh," the man shrugged but didn't attempt to move out of Aziraphale's reach, his fingers still lingering tentatively against his cheek. "You should have seen the other guys by the time I was done with them."

"You got into a fight? Did your time in jail teach you nothing?!"  Aziraphale grabbed the man's arm and dragged him into the bookstore, not waiting for a response.

"Woah angel, don't get all worked up over nothing. There were no other guys it was a stupid joke, okay? I forgot how hysteric you can get." He kept a smug smile on his face, not minding Aziraphale dragging him around in the slightest.  Aziraphale frowned but didn't stop rummaging through one of his cabinets, looking for an ointment to alleviate the bruising.

"First," he said upon returning to the room where Azaiah had made himself at home, sprawled in one of the couches in a Crowley-like manner. "Don't call me angel. And second, you still have to explain those bruises, the look ugly. Now you look like a London thug."

The man chuckled.

"Geez, okay. I'll tell you but stop being all bossy and just sit with me, I have missed your company."

Aziraphale felt his face becoming flushed but made no comment, rigidly sitting in the couch opposite from his unexpected guest.

"See, much better." The man had the audacity to wink at him. "So, I was on the train, just getting to Euston, like, almost there, and for some reason one of the doors opened and I, graciously as ever, stepped out."

"Okay." Aziraphale had crossed his arms. Uncomfortable didn't even begin to describe how he felt. But he didn't have time to dwell on those thoughts before his brain caught up to the man's words. "What do you mean you stepped out? In the station before Euston?"

"Nope," Azaiah smiled cheekily, basking in the angel's attention, feeding off his concern. 

"Oh holy father, you fell off a moving train."

"More like walked off, but yeah." He jumped to his feet, stretching and rubbing his injured side. "I expected worse, but you know us, we are just a tad more resistant than those around us."

"What do you mean?" 

In all honesty, this was on him. He had had his suspicions after the first time Azaiah had walked in on him miracling away the bruises and blood from being beaten by other inmates.  They had shared a look, and then his cellmate had walked to his bed and acted normally.  At that moment he had crossed it off as human-believes-their-eyesight-saw-wrong reaction. 

There were no more encounters like that, but a few close calls. Azaiah had also eyed him differently, nice and understanding, but with a hint of malice. It didn't sit well on him, like that one time he had been played by Nazis. Before the big reveal, they all had this look that said 'we know something you don't and we will use it to our advantage'.

His cellmate never mentioned his lack of sleeping or eating. But then again, he was sure he wasn't the only one who avoided going down to the canteen at certain hours.  Still, when the man had started calling him angel as a pet name, _that_ had been one big, shining-and-neon-all-caps hint. And, still, he had overlooked it.

"You done breaking that pretty little head of yours?"

"You are an angel." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He felt foolish. Heaven had actually been keeping tabs on him, after all.

"It breaks my heart a little bit that you wouldn't recognize one of your own if I'm being honest, but I'll take what I can get."

Aziraphale hadn't moved and at this point Adaiah was standing in front of him, leaning forward.

"Did heaven send you?" He was afraid, and for once he felt what Crowley had tried to get him to understand through words. The condemnation of being labelled 'one of their own'.

"Lord, no." His former cellmate laughed, seemingly unpreoccupied. "I haven't popped back up there since the war, eh, the one with the British and the French. Well, one of those. I pretty much rebelled, but those assholes up in management didn't take much notice so I still got my pure, white aura." He muttered the last words mockingly, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his hand.

"So you don't know who I am?" It could be worse, way worse. But now that he knew he wasn't in immediate danger of being turned in, he had no clue as to what the other angel wanted.

"Well, are you someone worth knowing? I probably wouldn't have seen through your vessel if I hadn't tried hard enough, but your name is a dead giveaway."

He couldn't dispute that. Heaven still had to learn the concept of subtlety. Although that also brought about the question of why there weren't more demons with holy names. Maybe they just changed them as part of the falling process. Anyway, now was not the time.

"Why did you befriend me? If you no longer follow heaven's rules?" Azaiah finally, _finally_, stepped away from his face, only to plop down next to him on the sofa.

"Oh I'm sorry, you do?" Aziraphale looked away in shame. "Yeah, figured _that_ much. And for the short time that I've known you, you haven't exactly cut back from a wide range of earthly pleasures."

He shifted closer, turning slightly and trying to catch Aziraphale's eyes. He stared at the table, hard. The last thing he needed after fighting with his best friend was to have another angel throw his sins at him.

"What can I say? Humans have developed magnificent cuisines throughout the years."

Azaiah laughed, spreading his arms wide and leaning back. He had given up on their eyes meeting and was now apparently taking up as much space as possible.

"I wasn't referring to that, darling." He replied sulkily, his left arm nudging at Aziraphale' coat.

"Hmm?" He raised an eyebrow. The only 'earthly pleasures' he truly engaged in were eating and reading.  Of course, one look at the other angel's eyes, scalding, pupils blown wide, and he could no longer deny Crowley's claim that he was _too darn innocent_ for his own good. 

He only managed to say "Oh dear" before the other angel was straddling his lap.

"Azaiah I really don't appreciate you wrinkling my suit!" He was angry and hurt and too taken aback to say what he actually wanted to say, something along the lines of 'what the fuck are you doing', so he just pushed the other man off, or at least tried to.

Jail might not have reformed Azaiah but it had certainly helped him grow in other ways.

"Come on, angel. You always talk and talk, what do you say we put that tongue to good use for once?" 

Before he could answer Azaiah bit his lip, forcefully. He let out a whimper and the angel took it as an opportunity to invade his mouth with his stale-whisky tongue.

He bit down, hard, and got slapped even harder.

"Now why the fuck would you do that? Jesus, I didn't think I'd have to manhandle you." Azaiah's eyes hadn't been glimmering with lust, he realized, but another kind of hunger. He got off on power. 

"Get the fuck out of my house," he worded each word with as much hate as he could muster, anger he didn't know he had on him boiling to the surface, swearing for the third time since the beginning of times.

Azaiah eyed him slowly, taking in his distraught expression, veins popping and ruffled hair. He smirked before slowly getting off him. With a wave of his hand the bruises previously decorating his face disappeared.

"It was nice seeing you, angel. I'll be back."

Aziraphale waited until he heard the door of the bookshop closing before standing up.

He didn't know what to do. What he could do. Brush his teeth and sleep it off? More like weep it off, he realised as his eyes glazed over. He rubbed the wetness away and stood in silence for a few seconds before drawing in a deep breath, steadying himself.

He knew he needed to get out of the bookshop. As far away as he could go walking. 

The feeling in his chest was a bitter reminder of when he first lost his miracling ability. The impotence, helplessness. Something he hadn't been able to tell Crowley. Too much shame. 

He needed to _breathe_.


End file.
